I Was Emotionally Blackmailed Onto a Fishing Boat and I Think I Became a Better Person
Getting on that boat was a mistake.
I don’t feel the call of nature. Not in the way it's romanticized. Captain Kirk may pine (haha) for the mountains and others possess a genuine love for the sea, but I will take my local library any day of the week. A cup of tea, a window next to the bookshelf while the rains crash against the glass, each splatter, each drop, a warm reminder of shelter.
So--
Put me in the library. I am begging you. Because once I set foot on that boat I knew--without a doubt--that the caged bird does not sing but screams.
“I just broke up with my girlfriend,” they said. “Don’t leave me alone on that boat.”
My friend is outgoing. Camping, bouldering, surfing, nothing’s too much to handle. Weekends rife with activities and life runs hectic like their dog. I am quite the opposite. I had bought a nice loose leaf tea and prepped sandwiches for a gentle weekend. Finally, it was time to experience Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. But friends call and you answer. Reluctantly, I left Captain Kirk paused on the bridge.
After an anxiety-ridden drive that lasted thirty minutes (you try navigating this godforsaken city), I made it to the pier. Parking was going to cost $34 dollars. I drove another kilometre down the road, found a public space, and trudged my way back.
It turns out that they wouldn’t have been alone anyway. They got their brother-in-law to come too.
I wanted to get off the moment I stepped on.
“I thought it’d be bigger,” said their brother-in-law. “I’ve fished with this company before. The last boat was twice as big.”
We both murmured our agreement; the boat was pretty small. Sixteen of us stuffed inside a hollow metal shell with little running water and a claustrophobia inducing toilet. After a long wait, the captain pointed to the box in the middle.
“Those are the life jackets. Don't put them on.”
Oh.
“If anyone falls overboard, just shout ‘man overboard!’. Keep pointing at him. That’s the float ring, there. Chuck it and don’t stop pointing until we bring him back. Any questions other than where we’re going?”
There were none.
“Good. Also, no littering.”
We set off. A slow chug that grew to be a roar. The engine was unsteady. At times, it hummed, then jerked into a teeth-chattering shake. I tried relaxing my jaw. It didn’t work. My skull was still shaking.
I tried standing up. The rocking made me sick.
The brother-in-law used to be a DJ in London. He told us that he’d seen wealth like we’d never be able to imagine. When we left the pier, he pointed out the yachts parked nearby.
“Small fish,” he said. I don’t think the pun was intended.
He'd seen the mega yachts and called them the most ludicrous displays of wealth. They (him and his coworkers) had boarded one only to be lead into a segregated area. A mere two steps separated their working quarters and the rich. No biggie, he mentioned. It wasn't like he wanted to explore the yacht. Internally, they called it the 'two steps of wealth'. Their rich employers ferried them to nightclubs on tiny islands, to which he quickly professed his interest.
Nightclubs? I asked.
"Nah, islands! Love reading about them."
As the boat fought the waves (it didn't so much swim as tread water), he began reciting the islands outside of Auckland. I asked if we were close to Waiheke and was promptly corrected that we were just near Motutapu island. The smaller one I just saw was Motuihe, and the tiny one we passed was Browns island.
“You know what the worst part was about those rich nightclubs?" he said suddenly. There was a bite of annoyance in his voice. Something he just couldn't let go. "They dumped salt into their tapwater. Even the toilets. You'd die in that kind of heat without a drink. They just wanted us to buy their bottled water.”
When I asked if he started bringing his own bottles in, he shook his head. Everyone who entered the nighclub was searched before entry. Even the employees.
“A bottle of water was 10 Euros. You need multiple a night. It’s terrible work.”
He stopped DJing long before he left London.
I was starting to feel really sick. I was starting to miss Captain Kirk and his shenanigans.
While my friend chatted about work, I was hanging onto the railing for dear life. Nonchalantly, of course. My knuckles were white and I was staring off into the distance, pretending to be interested in the view. Rangitoto Island with its ‘dormant’ volcano loomed.
The boat stopped abruptly. A massive cruise ship surged ahead. I was surprised how far back we parked. Even when it seemed clear to go, our fishing boat didn't resume the journey.
The captain was right to do so. What I missed was the wake.
Another sputter, another cranking jolt of the engine, and we finally set off, diving straight into the cruise ship's churning aftermath. The waves were deceptively small, but the first one struck the bow and made the boat lurch. Adults yelped. Others squealed. Children quaked with laughter. My grip on the railing tightened and I saw that if my knuckles got any whiter, they'd be wearing Uggs and drinking frappuccinos. The boat swerved and took the waves head on. It was the only way we could advance without being thrown off course.
At some point, I realized that this was unsustainable. Me, that is. I could not bear another three and a half hours with this kind of violence. It was then I remembered a good friend, one who flew often from the windy city of Wellington in planes that shake and quake through turbulence bad enough to make you wonder if you've accidentally ended up in a 737 MAX. He had a personal mantra:
"Just relax and accept you're going to die."
I hate him. I love him. Regardless, relaxing did the trick. When you loosen up, your body automatically works to keep your head stationary. The rocking continued. It was like riding a horse. Rough waves smashed the boat and splashed across the entire deck. The passengers squealed and pulled back their shoes.
It was fine. I had conquered the waves, but not the terror.
I just couldn't accept that I was going to die.
Compared to shore or lake, ocean fishing is a fast process. You cut the bait, stab it onto your hook (carefully!), and chuck it in the water. The sinker does its job pulling everything down and within moments, the nibbling starts. A small tug, here or there, almost imperceptible. It leaves you wondering whether you imagined it. Then, a stretch of nothing but the wind against your face, a small brush of rain, and the unsettling prickling of gooseflesh as you notice the mob of comorants staring nearby. You'll reel it back within a minute to find the bait gone. They're smart.
But every now and then, something will hook. It's not much of a fight. The majority of the resistance actually comes from the weight of your sinker. Fishing rods are a marvel of engineering. You start to realize how efficient humanity has become at hunting.
I pulled seven fish in total. Only one met regulations. The rest we let go.
Let's discuss the whale in the room: fishing is incredibly cruel. It's that hook. That double barbed recurve hook. There are ways to remove them without incurring additional suffering, but I didn't know how. My friend didn't know. Their brother-in-law didn't know either. So we struggled. We fought the fish. The fish fought back. They flip and flounder. Barbed fins try to pierce your soft, office worker fingers. You have no calluses. Your fingers' idea of rough, unprotected sex is using a non-ergonomic keyboard sans numpad. The air becomes rife with wet slaps and staggered gasps.
But all that stops when you touch the hook. It's the pain, I think, that freezes them still. It was torture.
Later, the captain dropped by and showed us how to remove the hook. You press it close towards the exterior of the fish's jaw/gills and then you push towards the mouth. "Pops out instantly," he said, laughing. "Easy!" (Note: it was not easy.)
In our group of three, I caught the only regulation sized fish (a snapper) that we could bring home. The captain killed it. I gave it to my friend since I wasn't intent on bringing any back. They shoved it in their icebox.
If you're going to go fishing, its imperative to learn how to take out a hook--not just for the fish, but your own safety as well. It's probably good to learn how to kill a fish too, because other than my own regulation fish that the captain killed for me, nobody else killed theirs. Nobody knew how. So they lay there, gasping and drowning in the air for the remainder of the four and a half hour fishing trip. Their struggles are constant in the background. Their tails beating against the plastic buckets.
A day later, my friend sent me a photo of the snapper I caught, steamed.
On the way back, we talked about gentler things. The waves had calmed or perhaps I had gotten too used to the boat that I didn't feel it anymore. A mist settled over all of Auckland, blocking out the tops of the skyscrapers; the light of our famous casino tower had lost its peak.
My friend was still getting over their breakup. They'd been talking to me about it during the entire trip. I considered much of what they told me as downright abuse. I received permission to recount it here; they know I write, and they would hope that whatever treatment they went through would help others find solidarity.
"I'm very sensitive to body odour," they said. They confessed their partner would get angry whenever they brought this up. That somehow, it was their fault for asking her to shower or at least use deodorant/body spray before cuddling and sex.
I told them that putting on body spray was at most, a few seconds of her time. And if she wasn't willing to give them a few seconds, how would their relationship function, let alone endure? In the future, they'd be asking for more than just a few seconds. They'd be asking for a lifetime.
"I read a statistic that queer relationships have the highest rate of abuse," they said. "I didn't believe it until now."
And yet this was still the best relationship they ever had. It was the one with the least amount of pain.
"It fucking sucks," they said. "We always argue. She hurt me so much. I cry all the time. But I still keep imagining a future with her."
Behind us, a woman threw a burger wrapper into the ocean. We wrinkled our faces.
I told them that they had lost too much of their identity. They used to be so sweet and vibrant but their joy had bled away over these years. I said there was someone incredible and wonderful out there just waiting to be with them, only they'd been trapped with a person that had choked out all their spark.
Essentially, I told them that there were still plenty of fish in the ocean--(teehee)
Later, we steered the conversation away. We discussed our lives. Most of what we’ve lost seems to be excitement. We’re so enveloped in our struggles that we forget what it’s like to anticipate great events. Sure, we pine and we yearn, but for a community that doesn't seem to exist, for things we deserve but are unable to find.
When was the last time you were excited--truly excited--about something? It's a feeling I sometimes forget exists.
They told me they were finally about to start transitioning. Top surgery was a must in their future. They joked about giving me their boobs, only to remember they had promised their boobs to another mutual friend. Near the end, they said they were happier now post breakup, but the look on their face held a familiar distress; the type when a person wonders if they deserve any of the good things happening. I did my best to reassure them, as I had done many times before.
I got a wary smile. I am reminded that all things leave a scar.
There was very little running water on the boat. We were told to wash our hands and fish and chopping boards strewn with guts in same barrel of fresh water. A water that was contaminated within the first five minutes of the journey. I gagged. I almost threw up. I didn't want to touch anything, let alone myself. My entire body was covered in fish guts and blood from handling the bait (squid and pilchard) in the wind and rain. My glasses were dirty, but I didn't dare touch them.
Everyone on the boat started eating on the way home. My friend drank beer. Their brother-in-law was eating chips. Both of them did so with naked hands washed in that barrel. They offered me food and drink alike. I politely declined (though I couldn't hide a shudder). They laughed. We talked. Since I have an unfortunate habit of touching my face when I'm nervous, I accidentally tasted fish guts. I gagged again.
After we got off the boat, we hugged for ages. We icked about fish guts and the horrible smell and ended with a laugh. When they drove off, it immediately started raining.
I walked back to my car. Despite the rain, despite stinking to high heaven, I enjoyed it. The view was nice, but I remember being too occupied with the inescapable fact that I was about to dirty my car.
I'm never going fishing again, of course. I don't want to be on a boat. I enjoyed no part of the experience.
Or so I tell myself. In the end, it's what other people always say: if you're scared of doing something, then do it scared. There's a reason why people keep pointing to the Yes Man ideal. There's a point to giving everything a try.
Life is about living. Make the choice to do so.
I conquered quite a few of my fears on this trip. Squeeze me enough and I'll admit that I did have fun. But I'm a princess. I have the cleanest living space you know. I may do gardening and other dirty work, but it's under copious amounts of protective clothing and gloves.
I'm a princess...but maybe it’s not that bad working in the stables.
WHO AM I KIDDING, I'M A PRINCESS. FUCK OFF. I DON'T EVER WANT TO GET DIRTY EVER AGAIN.
The next day, I stayed home, wrapped myself in blankets and had tea and croissants.
Wrath of Khan was pretty great.